Waste of Concern
by Jee oto ta Huttuk koga
Summary: Practice pieces made while writing "The Third Directive" and "Simple Conversation" to try to understand where Bucky's been. These were difficult to write and are probably difficult to read, so be warned. No slash, no pairings, just plenty of "hurt" and very little "comfort."
1. Surgery

**I told someone else that I hated hurting Bucky, but I did it enough while writing "The Third Directive." It didn't seem right to just toss these practice bits before skipping away to do something else. No fluff here, nothing nice at all.**

* * *

**1948**

Dr. Spanova deftly knotted the last suture and clipped the waxed filament with her curved scissors. "There you are, all done," she commented, knowing perfectly well that the man on the table couldn't hear her. She scribbled the post-operative orders onto the page, and returned it to the clip at the end of the steel table. Without thinking much about it, she automatically clasped his right wrist, the non-prosthetic one, to check his pulse. The vein throbbed under her fingers, the rhythm much too fast.

A moment's observation showed that his respiration was atypical for someone coming out of anesthesia as well. The breaths were spaced correctly, but shallow, sharp and quick. The duty nurse who had been monitoring his vital signs during the surgery had reported nothing amiss. She opened one of his eyelids, and found no latency in the pupil reflex. "Wait a second," she said, putting her hand to his forehead. It was damp with sweat. "You're…not sedated?" Dr. Spanova felt her stomach twist as she snatched the chart up again and scanned it. The tank feeding the mask line had been oxygen only. "No order for anesthesia?"

To her shock, his eyelids fluttered and opened. His gaze was unfocused, but there was no doubt that he saw her. And in the depths of his blue eyes she saw _pain,_ horrible pain. The clipboard dropped from her suddenly numb hands and clattered on the floor. "Dr. Zola!" she shouted, backing out of the surgery room. "Dr. Zola!"

She found him in his office, squinting through his thick glasses at a yellow-covered scientific journal. "What is it?" he asked without looking up.

"The man in 335, the one with the detatched upper abdominal rectus…"

"Oh yes, was the surgery successful?"

"He had no anesthesia…he was awake for the entire procedure."

Dr. Zola shrugged. "He doesn't need any."

"What do you mean? He's tachycardic, he's got brisk reflexes and full autonomic response..."

"Exactly what I said. He doesn't need any. If he moves too much, just administer more paralytic. If he is not cooperative in other ways, call the orderlies. They'll see to it."

"Post-surgical analgesia?"

"He…doesn't…need…any." Dr. Zola emphasized each word sternly, peering at her through the lenses that almost comically magnified his eyes. "He will not voluntarily move until he is given an order that he may. You need only check the site in a couple of hours and make certain the healing process has begun. He will not even have a scar in a few days, you'll see." Zola waved dismissively, turning back to his reading. "Complete waste of concern."

When Dr. Spanova went back to the surgical suite, she saw that the intravenous line and the oxygen mask had been removed. At the sight of her white coat, his breath rate increased perceptibly. He did not move. "Don't be afraid," she said. She ran some cool water from the tap into a cup, and brought it to the bedside. "You can't have anything to drink yet, but I bet your mouth is dry. Are you able to swallow?"

His eyes focused briefly, and he swallowed. Dr. Spanova dipped a clean gauze pad into the water and dabbed it to his lips. The man lay motionless, but after a moment, he slowly licked the water from his mouth. "Just a little bit more," she said, allowing a few drops this time. Again, he licked at the water. He must have been parched; the surgery had taken several hours. But as Dr. Zola had predicted, the incisions were already beginning to granulate, the earliest stage of healing. "I can't give you anything for the pain, I'm sorry," she said gently.

His expression remained impassive, but he blinked once.

The door opened behind her. She had just enough time to notice his pupils dilate. A white-shirted orderly raised a pistol and fired, sending a single bullet into the back of Dr. Spanova's head. Blood splattered in a rain of thick droplets, and lances of red splashed onto the wall and across the bed. She slumped out of the chair, dead before she hit the floor. Dr. Zola sighed. "Thank you, Orderly. Clean this up when you have time, please." He glanced once at the man on the bed. "Complete waste of concern. Restrain him before the paralytic wears off, before you do anything else. You have less than 15 minutes."

After the orderly had strapped him firmly to the table and departed, a single tear slid from the Soldier's closed eye, leaving a wavering pink track through the slick of blood that mottled his face and chest. It would be dried and gone by the time they came back.


	2. Weapon Training

**There's one more of these, but I think I'm done. On to something fun.**

* * *

"Understood, sir." The Lieutenant replaced the heavy black earpiece into its cradle. "Command says they'll be bringing him down shortly. Is everything in order?"

"Yes, sir," Churnov replied. "What's the hold-up? They usually have him up and ready for training by now."

"Some irregularity in the stasis protocol," the Lieutenant said, glancing over the disassembled rifle pieces that had been arranged across the mat. "They had to give him some fluids."

"Well, they need to hurry the hell up. We have to get him into the field in less than a week."

"Don't grumble," said Leferge, the liason from the Belgian rifle manufacturer. "These FALs aren't that much different than what he's used before. He'll learn it quickly, I'm sure."

"He'd better."

The armed and armored handlers escorted the Winter Soldier into the room a few minutes later and parked him heavily in the single steel chair. He sat with his eyes downcast and his shoulders slightly hunched. Leferge grimaced. "Are you sure he's ready? He doesn't look so good."

"Command says he is."

"All right then. Soldier, look at the rifle pieces."

The Soldier inclined his head, and gazed blearily at the rifle kit. A flicker of vague interest crossed his face and then vanished. Once Leferge was reasonably certain he had the Soldier's attention, he began his instruction. "This is a light automatic rifle, also known commonly as a FAL, from its designation in the French language. It is chambered for the 7.62 NATO round, which will be provided, and are easily obtainable in the operations area." He pointed to the barrel. "Step one. Make sure the threads are clean, and fit the barrel to the upper receiver."

Leferge demonstrated the steps in assembling and firing the weapon, then expertly broke it down and laid out the pieces in identical order. "Assemble the rifle. Step one."

The Soldier picked up the rifle barrel and inspected the threads, checking for dirt or metal burrs. Seeing none, he set the end of the barrel into the receiver and screwed it into place. Leferge observed, "The barrel is misthreaded."

The Lieutenant nodded, and Churnov swiftly backhanded the Soldier. He showed no reaction as crimson spread over his cheekbone. Leferge removed the incorrectly seated barrel and set it back on the mat. "Do it again."

The Soldier correctly attached the barrel on the second attempt. By the time he had assembled the rifle, his face was bruised and bleeding from repeated corrections. Leferge lifted the completed weapon and inspected it. "This is acceptable."

Churnov let out a relieved sigh, spreading his fingers and shaking out his hand. "I'm glad to hear that!"

"Aw, need some ice for your little baby hands?" Leferge said with a derisive snort.

"Hey, that takes some effort! But he doesn't look so much like a super-soldier now, thanks to these baby hands."

A tremor ran through the Soldier's body. "I'm not," he said softly.

The three men stared at him, shocked. "What did you say?" The Lieutenant asked.

"I'm not a…I'm not." The Soldier's right hand began to twitch. "I'm not. I'm not."

The Lieutenant quickly lifted the phone as the Soldier continued his denials. "Sir, there is a problem. The Asset is becoming unstable. No, none. Not yet. Acknowledged." He turned to the handlers. "Level Two Restraints until he is compliant."

They activated the magnets in his metal arm. His wrist slammed into the side of the chair with a loud clang. They fitted his right arm into the padded restraint on the other side and buckled it tight. Similar cuffs held his ankles and knees. The Soldier did not resist, or even seem to register their presence, until the handlers approached him with the blindfold. "No!" he cried. "I'll be good! I'll…no!" He struggled violently as they bound his eyes and fastened the mouth guard around the back of his head.

Leferge looked skeptical. "They are probably going to want to wipe him. Do you think any of this instruction will stick?"

"I doubt it," Churnov mumbled. "Wasted day. Now I want to waste some more time with beer."

"Beer?" Leferge asked in surprise. "I thought Russians drank vodka?"

"You'll see. They will find that beer is healthier than vodka."

The Lieutenant laughed. "Beer is bread. If I want bread, I'll eat it, not drink it." He took a last glance at the Soldier, who had stopped fighting. His chest rose and fell, hyperventilating, sobs muffled by the gag. "They'll come get him in a few hours, after he's calmed down. Let's go."


	3. Wipe

**A/N: Trying to stay minimalist while simultaneously humanizing/dehumanizing everyone in the room.**

* * *

The Asset had started becoming erratic almost as soon as he'd been extracted from the field.

The mission handlers had noticed the problem in the transport when he'd started talking to himself in a low, unintelligible mumble. Slaps and even kicks had only stopped him for a few minutes at a time. Then he was right back at it, eyes correctly locked onto the floor, but still mouthing that strange, barely audible monologue. They'd ordered him to give them a condition report. His reply was a few garbled words they couldn't decipher, which had earned him another blow.

As soon as they'd gotten him back to the base, The Soldier stood passively as they stripped off his armor and peeled the bloody uniform from his body. Suddenly, without having been ordered to speak, he announced, "My stomach hurts." He was only supposed to report pain that was potentially incapacitating, so the physicians examined him carefully. He had no wounds, no injuries at all.

The analysts were very concerned, and said to get him into the chair right away, before he'd even been rehydrated. They said he needed to be wiped _now_, before he became too unstable to handle safely. The handlers led him to the chair and firmly positioned him into the seat. They pushed his shoulders back and held him in place until the pneumatic restraints had encircled his arms and legs. As the electrode plate began to descend, the Soldier struggled and tried to turn his head, which worried the analysts even more. He should not have remembered anything of the previous procedures, but he obviously did.

The first pulse was standard, 85 cycles per second at 800 milliamps. The Soldier convulsed in the restraints, and bit down hard into the mouthguard. After reading the results, it was determined that he'd become accustomed to the maintenance dosage, and a higher one would be needed to overcome the anomalous pattern. They gave him sixty seconds of rest to ensure that his breathing was adequate before the next administration.

The second pulse was 85 cycles per second at 1300 milliamps. Several people sat tight-lipped, a few instinctively clapped their hands over their ears to drown out the agonized screams. One of the newer project engineers actually paled and ran out of the room.

To the surprise and terror of everyone still present, three bolts in the left arm restraint began to wobble in their sockets. They counted the ticking seconds as the bolts danced and lengthened, hoping desperately that the metal would hold.

"Powering down."

As the restraints unlocked and folded into the sides of the chair, there was a collective sigh of relief, and some shaken smiles. The recovery team held the Soldier's hand and smoothed his hair until he stopped sobbing and could open his eyes. He looked around in confusion, as if seeing the room and the people in it for the first time. They asked him gently if his stomach still hurt. He looked at the floor and tiredly shook his head.


	4. Baton

There was blood on the floor. How had it gotten there? A dark droplet tracked through his grey vision like a falling pebble and_ plocked _onto the smooth stone by his knees. The blood loss and the drugs being poured through the veins in his forearm were making him sleepy and weak…it was so hard to think. He felt his body beginning to tip forward, and caught himself sharply, jerking his head up. He had been ordered not to lose consciousness, but it was…

_Plock._ Another drop spread into a ragged circle on the concrete.

Instructor Churnov gestured, and a small doorway swiveled on its axis, revealing a hollow space behind. A pale bundle was placed before him, and something heavy and hard clattered to the floor. "Look," Churnov commanded. He raised his eyes and felt a rush of dread that threatened his tenuous hold on consciousness. It was a baby, a sleeping baby of no more than eight or nine months. The child had probably been drugged…it had not awakened when it had been set onto the cold stone at his knees. A plain, smooth-headed baton, little more than a steel knob on a metal shaft, had been dropped near his right hand. Churnov's face did not change as he said, "Pick up the weapon, Soldier, and kill the child."

His stomach heaved, and he dropped forward onto his hand, shaking as he fought to keep himself from falling. "I…this…I can't…I can't…"

"Pick up the weapon, Soldier, and kill the child."

When he did not move to obey, the Instructor lashed out with a gauntleted fist, grabbed a handful of his overgrown hair and slammed his face into the concrete floor. He caught the brunt of the impact on the ridge of his right forehead and his cheek, and darkness blossomed behind his eyes. His arm burned as more substances were pushed into his bloodstream.

"Pick up the weapon, Soldier, and kill the child."

The Instructor had not released his grip on his hair, and pulled back his head until he could only see the ceiling blocks. "I can't, I can't, I can't…!" he cried, the rising pitch of his voice filling the chamber.

Two more impacts on his face blurred his vision until he could see only patches of light in a field of black. A voice he did not recognize said gently, "You must. It is for the good of your country."

The kind voice filled his mind, as his veins filled with fire. "America…requires…this?"

"It does. There is no one else who can do this. If you fail, all of America falls."

_Plock._

He stretched out a trembling hand and closed his fingers around the grip of the baton.

_AN: I may or may not be working on another CA:WS story. _


End file.
